Passing Time
by henrywiinter
Summary: England stays behind after a tiring world meeting for some quiet, only for America to return. They talk. They both have regrets. But maybe, this is forgiveness. They'll be okay.


_Time passes, and he'll be okay._

He doesn't know how long it's been. Years go by so quickly for nations, after all, and he needs to convince himself that he _doesn't_ care.

(He knows that he does. He knows that he always _will_ care, but pretending otherwise is the only way he can hold himself together.)

England sighs. _'Why does everything have to be so hard?_ ' he thinks to himself. Another world conference, another unproductive meeting, another wasted day. Nothing is ever resolved- just more arguments created. The tension grows more with each meeting and it's even uncomfortable just being around certain nations at the same time. He supposes, however, that others must feel the same about him and America. They don't talk or even look at each other anymore.

 _Now, that's not entirely true, is it?_

He sits alone in the conference room. Everyone else left as soon as they could, about half an hour ago, with only Canada and France pausing to give him a small smile and a concerned look respectively. England feels himself shivering as the evening grows darker and sighs, pulling his feet up on the chair to hug his knees to his chest. Of all the times for the world meeting to be held in Russia, it had to be in the winter, didn't it?

It's not like he couldn't leave at any time. He could go back to the hotel, with heating and a warm bed, and sleep away his regrets and concerns. But it's quiet here now, and there's no expectations for him. England sighs again. Maybe he could fall asleep here, he wonders. It's cold, yes, but he thinks he'll probably pass straight out if he gets up to walk outside. World meetings use a lot of energy. And a lot of that energy is no, definitely not spent on avoiding the gaze of a certain nation so coincidentally sat in front of him.

His quiet and thoughts are finally interrupted as he hears a push on the old wooden door from the outside. Groaning and leaning on the table to place his head in his hands, England calls out, "France, if that's you I really don't have the time or energy for this right now." "I'm not France," comes the quiet reply, and England freezes _. No, no, no, no, no, not now…_

He hears the door pushed shut and doesn't dare to look up, praying the other will break the silence before it becomes too awkward. He doesn't have to wait long.

"Shit, it's freezing in here, why haven't you left yet?" England doesn't miss the forced casualness of his voice, the desperate attempts to not seem as nervous as he knows they both feel.

"How'd you know I was still here?" whispers England, still hiding his face with his hands and almost praying he was too quiet to be heard.

"I- uh, you weren't paying attention when the meeting ended. And you didn't get up to leave either. And, um. I knew you'd probably stay here and think too much." The last part was barely more than a whisper, and finally, England looks up. He meets the beautiful, bright blue eyes of America and tries not to visibly wince.

America ducks his head almost immediately to avoid the gaze and pulls out a chair to sit down and lean back on. He glances around the room and rubs the back of his neck self-consciously before opening his mouth to speak once again.

"I forgot to change my currency and no one here speaks English. I was gonna ask Canada for help but he already left with France. Uh. Oops. And I certainly wasn't gonna ask Russia himself to sort me out."

England snorts despite himself. Still with his voice barely above a murmur, he says, partly to himself, "Somehow, this doesn't surprise me."

America smiles softly and pushes his glasses up his nose, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Pretty stupid of me, huh."

It's incredible how America's presence can calm him and yet still put him more on edge and scare him more than ever, isn't it?

England sighs and reaches down to his backpack to pull out his wallet, chucking it across the table to him. With not even a blink he catches it with his quick reflexes before staring down at it in shock. "Huh?"

Ever eloquent, isn't he.

"Unlike you, some of us can plan in advance. There's money in there, go get a taxi back to the hotel."  
"But what about you?".

England jerks his head.  
"Doesn't matter. I won't be able to sleep now anyway. Maybe I can figure out where everything in this bloody city is."  
"Come on, dude! It's freezing. You can't die here in Russia of all places."  
"Need I remind you, lad. We're immortal."

They both lapse into silence and England shivers again, not so subtlety rubbing his hands against his upper arms. He's trying to avoid looking at America but he knows neither of them can avoid the ever-present awkwardness that still exists between the two of them. And then he jumps.  
"What?" he snaps, as America's dark blue scarf hits him lightly in the chest. His own reflexes were never as good as his younger nation's.

"You're cold." America's voice is clear and confident, although his face betrays his own nerves. England ponders on that for a second; how he'd never truly been able to hide his thoughts however hard he'd tried.

"I'm fine," mutters England, even as he wraps the scarf around his fingers for the warmth.  
"Aw, come on, I can't have you, well. Nearly dying on my watch, can I?"  
England's face softens, ever so slightly- "Thank you, America."

He offers him a small smile, and is met with America positively beaming at him. Far too happy for simple words of thanks.

Circling the scarf hesitantly around his neck, England breathes in and looks back up.  
"You're still here."

He flinches at how harsh it sounds and doesn't fail to miss the slight crack in America's smile, feeling immensely guilty. America opens and closes his mouth several times and cuts himself off after single harsh syllables, and England simply raises an eyebrow at him.

"I don't want to leave you," he finally gets out, his voice an imitation of England's earlier whispers. England recoils.

Well.

He hadn't been expecting that. ' _Never stopped you before_ ,' he thinks bitterly, hating himself for that even crossing through his mind. He suspects America notices his bitterness as he flashes him an apologetic look.

"It doesn't matter." England's voice is hollow, staring down at the hands clasped in his lap. "Just- go back. It's warm and safe in the hotel. I'll be fine."  
"It's practically pitch black out there!".

Oh, and so it is.

"You can't go out walking on your own! And-" America stops abruptly and England knows he doesn't want to admit that he's scared, too. That bloody _hero_.

England gives up; he's still too tired to argue with him. "Fine, stay. But if you freeze you can't say I didn't try." He lays his arm on the table and leans down to rest his head, turning to the side to stare through the window at the lampposts illuminating the night sky. America's voice is hesitant as he fills the brief emptiness in England's head.

"You know," he begins, and that's never anything good. "I. Well. I just wanted you to know. I'm sorry." England almost laughs outright at him, shifting his head to position his chin on his forearm to look up at him with tired eyes. "What good does that do now? America, you don't need to apologise. You did what you thought was best."

They both seem almost shocked at the calmness of his statement and then America vigorously shakes his head. "No, no. I'm not sorry for… That." He winces.

"I'm sorry for hurting you."

 _…Well._

Today _certainly_ wasn't going how he'd expected, was it?

His green eyes don't leave the blue and if he said that forced half-smile America gave him didn't break his heart even just a little bit, he'd be lying.

Without thinking, England's hand reaches out towards America before he realises and pulls it back, his face turning slightly pink. America seems to understand, however, as he pushes himself up onto the table and slides his way across the width to sit in the chair next to England, who has to hide his smile behind the back of his hand at America's childish antics.

No longer caring about what repercussions his actions might have, England reaches out for America's hand and grips it tight. "I miss you."  
He doesn't know where this sudden burst of bravery or emotions has come from, but it's easy to just blame it on the lateness and his stress. America squeezes his eyes shut and says "Yeah. Yeah, I miss you too," with a voice shaking terribly.

England would feel embarrassed about his own sudden display of affection and nearly pulls his hand away, but America doesn't mock him or even seem particularly concerned. In fact, America curls his fingers around the back of his hand and holds him tighter, but noticeably avoids looking at him. Shifting on his chair to lean slightly forward, England chances a look at America and can't miss the pained expression on his face.

"America…?" he asks hesitantly, and he looks down to meet his eyes and supplies him with another small, forced smile. England's heart breaks even more. He pauses before speaking again and offering softly, "I know this hasn't exactly been… Ideal. But still, America, you can talk to me."

And so America does.

"I'm sorry, really. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't want it to end up like, well, like this. I miss you, England. I knowwe can't be the same anymore but- I don't know. I don't like not talking to you and avoiding you and things being awful between us. And I know you're probably fine with things this way, and I guess that's up to you. But I hate this."

He gently tugs his hand away to run it through his hair and sighs, digging his nails into his scalp. England is torn between reaching out to hug him and reaching out to stop him from hurting himself, but settles for pushing the heel of his hand into his cheeks and mutters, "Oh, God, America."

He removes his hands from his own face to place them on America's shoulders and England feels him relax ever so slightly under his grip.

"You stupid boy, you thought I was fine with this?" There was no venom in England's voice, just desperation for understanding.  
"...You don't hate me?"  
"...What?"

England openly gapes at him and tightens his hold.  
"Oh, what the hell. How could you think I'd do anything but love you?"

They both realise what he's said at exactly the same time and England groans and pulls his hands away to slap himself in the face but America stops him, reaching to catch both his palms in his own.

"Oh," he says, rather pathetically, ducking his head to stare at the rather dull carpet.  
England shifts uncomfortably and says, "You should know that's true. It always has been,", sounding just as pathetic.  
"Yeah," says America softly. "And you know I love _you_ , right?"

He stares up again at England with those bright, bright blue eyes that never fail to make his heart race and he can't even begin to form his next words. But he feels that warm glow inside him and finally, _finally_ , he's okay again, and he knows he must be smiling because America is too- and honestly, that's all England needs to be happy and reassured.

He knows they can work through this; that they can now begin to rebuild their broken relationship. Because he knows they both want this. And they will try.

"We, uh, we should get out of this cold though."

It catches up with England at long last that they're sat in a cold room in Russia in the middle of winter at night and he stands up, pulling America with him. They don't let each other go until they're finally back at the hotel and this time, leaving isn't as scary.

What is there to fear now?

 _Time passes, and he **is** okay. They'll be okay._

 _(But will it ever stop hurting, though?)_


End file.
